


Photographic Memory

by smothermeinrelish



Category: John Lennon - Fandom, McLennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: All because of the photo, Fluff and Smut, M/M, McLennon in Paris, Memories, Paris trip, Sleeping John, soft moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smothermeinrelish/pseuds/smothermeinrelish
Summary: The memories of their trip are saved on a roll of film.  However, not all of the memories can be captured.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	Photographic Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I kept coming back to the photograph Paul took of a sleeping John from their trip to Paris, and decided to write a short piece on how the photo came to be.
> 
> Purely speculation, I just love some soft Paris McLennon.
> 
> Enjoy xoxox

White smoke ribboned through the periwinkle, pre dawn light of the room. These French fags burned similar to incense, traditional in the ritual. Succumb into serenity after intense spiritual release. 

He sat, knees to his chest, perching on the tattered chair at the foot of the tichy bed. The radiator behind clunked and sizzled to warm the crisp October air in the dim room. Dragging the cigarette deeper into his lungs, expelling the white smoke, reminiscent of what transpired only hours ago. 

What exactly it was, he couldn’t put his finger on. It started immediately after they set foot on the soil of the foreign land. 

‘I’m fed up with it all, let’s get outta here.’

‘To where?’

‘Spain. First we’ll go to Paris. Let’s reconnect Macca. I’m sick of all the bollocks. Stu, Mimi, and Cyn, let’s fuck off.’

‘Sounds good Johnny!’

He’d follow John wherever he went, to the ends of the earth. Or someplace more hellish, like Hamburg. Their last tour left them downtrodden, no clearer picture of a profitable future. His father was getting on his case, to find a real job. Factory work didn’t appeal to him. He couldn’t be with John if he was behind the walls of a cement tomb. 

He smoked the fag to a burning stub, singed his fingers. The quick heat brought him back to where he was, starting in peace at the beautiful man curled into the duvet, sleeping in bliss. 

‘Its not queer, everyone ‘ere is arm and arm John.’

‘Says, you. I expect your hand cupped on me arse Macca, after coppin’ all me dough for this venture.’

‘I could do more to your arse if you’d let me, you cheeky bugger.’

‘Fuck off, I thought you catholic school boys were prim an’ avoided the devil’s backdoor?’

‘Ah now son, don’t knock it, til ya’ try it!’

Then, the first night. Road weary, heavy with drink from cheap wine and ‘frites’ they’d fallen into the narrow sleeping quarters. Bodies thrush, boy sweat clinging to the damp hairline. Forehead to forehead, singing softly ‘...do you miss me tonight, are you sorry we drifted apart?’...Eyes closed, humming into a dreamless sleep, the touch of chapped skin, met with sloppy pecks. He smiled, went into the dance with his own fervor and contentment. Kissing drunkenly awkward, but intensely meaningful. As if the occurrence was a natural progression of what he’d meant when he said, ‘lets reconnect.’ 

Morning had risen, and the next days passed with more touches and encounters of flesh. Nights were cut short at pubs and music halls because they’d rather be in that cocoon of comfort. The room where no one knew what went on besides the two of them. The way it should remain between them, no one could stop this. The natural progression of when Lennon and McCartney became true partners.

Alabaster skin raised in gooseflesh, while callused fingers traced light down the sinew of his neck, through the thatch of dark hairs on his breastbone. Over the sensitive tips of his nipples, a wet mouth kissed hot breath over the planes of his torso. Mouthing the soft pad edging his belly button.

‘Take me. Make me yours.’

Mumbled words with eyes closed while he focused on the elastic of the boxers, keeping head down and lips caressing over the damp fabric, tenting his erection.

Lifting his head, Paul watched as he licked over the head of him. Eyes connecting, pleading to his lover. This is what he wanted, he was asking for it. Running fingers through the dark auburn fringe, the contact of the touch had John nosing Paul’s pelvic groove in anticipation to his demands. 

‘Yeah, I want that.’

He smiled up at him, a satisfactory response. That night, by the lights of Paris and the moon, Paul gave John what he had wanted. What they had both wanted.

Still studying the man asleep, Paul rose up quietly. Walking nude to the chest of drawers where the Rollei camera he took from Mike sat. He examined the device, checking through the lense to focus.

Padding back to the chair, he raised the camera, aimed and clicked.

The mechanical snick stirred John from his serene rest. Eyebrows furrowing in dreamlike confusion. Similar to the way they arched in pleasure as his breathing quickened, riding the sensation. With his arms reaching for a grasp on reality, to bring him down from the haze of lust. Paul layed closer, chests touching, entwining their fingers. 

‘I’ve got you.’  
Mirror images of each other, thrusts into the damp flesh, on the precipice. He kissed the stubble under John’s jaw. The intoxicating smell of salt and pepper aftershave, so heady, so John. This is where they escaped, this moment is why they had to get away. Blinding white climax, so strong and fulfilling he could taste it. John was perfect in his arms, thighs holding his hips tightly, not willing to let go ever again.

‘Mmmmm, come back to bed. ‘S bloody cold in here….’

A roll of the film, before he set the machine on the nightstand. Billowing the covers up, making way for him, his lover assumed the comfort of his side. Nestled close, his cold skin pressed into the warm body.

Soft nuzzles to that spicy spot behind his ear. He breathed in deep, inhaling the new Paris morning on his flesh. A hand reaching for the protection across his heart, ‘cover me’ it says. Paul let’s his embrace swallow John whole.

A few beats pass, the rhythmic air coming from John tells him that he’s deep asleep. His mouth traces freckles on John’s shoulder, he has memorized the pattern in the days together. A kiss to the one shaped like a fuzzy heart, closing his eyes, he hugs tighter. The memories are theirs, and theirs alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr [@smothermeinrelish](https://smothermeinrelish.tumblr.com)


End file.
